Matinée

Leaving the theater in afternoon sun,
we realize there is still so much
time left in the day. I wish
my life were like that: a dark room
breathing, one wall enveloped
in flame and when the envelope tears
open, I realize there is still so much more: Pages
 
unwritten, a cigarette waiting for its light.
After the letters rain and footlights rise,
it would be easy to get up, stretch my legs
and cross the bright parking lot
among the other travelers, climb into my car
and drive away, forgetting the terror
that flickered and raced across my waking eyes.

Washcloths
 
We keep white washcloths
in a kitchen drawer. After a meal
I drop a beam of warm
water from the silver faucet
into a washcloth and reach through it
the smeared faces of my children.
I want the water to be warm
that scrapes off the berry stain,
the grime of butter. These used cloths
accumulate on the countertop
and grow cold. They draw flies.
A couple times a day, I step out
through the sliding door and drape
white cloths over the cracked deck rail.
The flies are there, too, of course.
They’re excited to greet me
because I come bearing the gifts
that my children wear on their faces.

Moths swerve to candles as the weight
Of light pulls them in orbit about a flame.

I look north from the Sacramento Airport
To the oak trees bunched on Elverta Road
Where my parents’ home once gleamed
Like a candle of love wrought wax drawing
Out my childhood of old December nights.

Now that house is gone, moved to a place
Where the light does not penetrate as far.

Now it is a December morning rushing me
Back to Hawai‘i, where my wife and children
Glow with warmth. That glow draws me home
As a parent. If light has no mass, how can lights
Past and present weigh so much within my chest?
What does a moth do between two candles?

Kenneth Tokuno spent his youth in Sacramento where his father had a farm north of the airport. He has published over 100 poems in journals all over the west coast and Hawaii. His book of poems, Orchard, was published by Bellowing Ark Press in 2007. He has lived in Hawaii since 1993. His poetry is usually inspired by his relationships to family and friends.

If, upon returning to the mainland from the island,
you don’t go and knock on their door
you’ll always be here, as if on the island,
adrift between island and mainland shore,
always outside their closed door.
 
If you don’t go where they are and knock
they’ll go on with their lives.
Should some sight or sound remind them of you
it will be you don’t care, you never loved them.
 
You tell yourself approaching that shore
I love, loved and will love them. They are better
left alone, going on as they have been
since the morning I set out from the mainland.
I had to. That much was clear.
 
If, upon returning to the mainland, you don’t knock
on their door they’ll go on, no thoughts of you,
except sight or sound remind them.
Their faces clear in memory. The ones you love.

Peter Mladinic’s poems have appeared in numerous online journals. He has published three books of poems Lost in Lea, Dressed for Winter, and Falling Awake in Lovington, all with the Lea County Museum Press. His forthcoming Knives on a Table will be out soon from Better Than Starbucks Publications. He lives with six dogs in Hobbs, New Mexico.
 
“If” began over ten years ago as a much longer poem, with more in the way of imagery to evoke an individual who, over time, went out of the poem. Part of that poem involved the topic of letting people drive while intoxicated. About two years ago, I worked on it some more and got something like the final draft, but longer. I couldn’t bring it into focus as a whole. I stepped away, and then recently wrote what you see, fairly quickly, though I’d been very familiar with previous drafts.

Same shit,
different day,
the clock ticks in my skull I think.
I sit, I type and listen,
I wait to speak.
There is a lunch break midday,
I step over the same homeless man,
he asks for a dollar,
I give him the same dollar.
But each morning,
before all of this,
I look into the same cup,
and somehow see a different person in it.
I would rather go than go without.

S.M. Moore is a writer based out of southern Maine. He spends most of his evenings and weekends writing poetry, short stories, or working on what will be his first novel. When not writing, Moore can be found surfing, backpacking, or spending time with his friends and family in the greater Portland, Maine area. 

    After seven days of intolerable confinement, Izzy decided that this foggy afternoon was the right time to free herself. And, if she could manage, Clara.
    She had been testing her crippled body since the morning darkness, inundating her extremities with signals to flex, and, with any hard-earned luck, move. Her weak arms appeared up to the task; she guessed her weight to be just shy of one-hundred pounds. Her legs, however, remained stubborn, anchoring her to the bed. For all the training she had subscribed to these counterparts, none was more rigorous, more vital than her breathing regimen.
    Izzy's relationship with oxygen had always been of a toxic nature. A university athlete who had relied upon her immaculate lungs for victory, it had been an unreliable ankle that decided ten metres from an important finish line was the time to snap, end her career, sink her into the depths of depression, and enroll her in a new, lifelong sport: smoking. Three packs a day, four when she was feeling particularly good (or bad), for fifty years.
    And now the ghosts of cigarettes past were preventing her, in spite of her cooperative arms, from liberating herself, and, more importantly, Clara.
    Izzy exhaled a laboured breath, painfully inhaled another. She should have been accustomed to it by now, but the air filtering throughout her sanctuary still tasted as artificial as it smelled. She felt the rather stale intake race through her mouth and nostrils, hoping to reach the pair of black bags that kept her going for no real purpose.
    Save for Clara.
    The clean dose of oxygen reached her ashen lungs, then exited her mouth and nose in another labored exhalation. Izzy imagined the polluted molecules warning the new wave of respiration about what corruption lay within her.
    She looked to her right, locked eyes with the never-blinking Clara, and, with a look that said “Don't you dare move now”—she couldn't risk precious breaths on her roommate's deaf ears—began the arduous journey.
    Izzy watched as she willed her right arm across the centimetres that felt like kilometres of bed. The feeble limb made pitiful progress before stopping entirely so she may regain what energy she could.
    A surge of anger propelled her arm against the plastic sheet dividing her and Clara. Her hand slid down the thick material until it landed in the crevice between the sheet and edge of the bed. Using this newfound leverage, Izzy began pulling her weight with her right arm, while pushing against the mattress with her left. The juicy idea of giving up had crossed her mind, just as it had when her former severely fit self, besieged by physical and psychological cramps, had desired to slow her run to a crawl at the three-thousand-metre mark. Her conditioned lungs had burned then. Now they were volcanic.
    But the agony and certain death would be worth it. Not only for herself, but Clara, who had never felt a pang in her endless life.
    Izzy now found herself at a ninety-degree angle: the top half of her body sprawled laterally across the bed; the bottom half remained affixed to where it had been since she embarked upon this suicide mission of sorts. After a quick mental team huddle with her barely-working parts, she used her right hand to push against the plastic sheet. The damn thing was like a wall of concrete. Her reluctant body threatened to pull the plug on the whole operation, but a little bit of that wholesome anger, and a lot of thinking about what would happen to Clara if she failed, helped free the bottom of the plastic sheet from between the mattresses. Izzy exhaled so deeply, the fog outside of her only window found its way to her eyes.
    One breath.
    Her vision slowly . . .
    Two breaths.
    . . . slowly .  . .
    Three breaths.
    . . . returned.
    She felt her old nemesis oxygen assisting her rushing blood to restore her vision. But she knew better; death had brushed past her.
    Move it, she urged herself.
    Izzy hadn't intended to escape by falling on her head, but as she shimmied herself closer . . . closer . . . closer, then over . . . over . . . over the edge of the bed, it seemed the only way. Her head free of the plastic sheet, the faint aroma of cooking bombarded her olfactory. She couldn't help but sacrifice a valuable breath to take in the recipe she had shared with her daughter long ago. You're using too much garlic powder, she thought, the seasoning burning her sinuses. But that was Isabelle: too much or too little of everything.
    Her shoulders hanging over the edge of the bed, thinned blood rushing to her head, Izzy wondered—not for the first time—what Isabelle would think when the time came to trudge upstairs, check on her dying mother, and find her however she ended up. Hopefully, with Clara in my arms, she thought.
    She wondered if her daughter would even care.
    The pair of Izzy’s had lived a life of few kisses and plenty of bites. Izzy had made the cliche attempts to live via her namesake (Isabelle's ankles were still intact, after all). Her daughter had indeed run; not on the track, but away from home, turning the typical one-off act of rebellion into a quarterly sport. When she was home, Isabelle would blame Izzy for all of her life's unwanted biographic details: the casting out of her father, the selfish act of naming her after herself (never mind the tradition), the reason for her isolating unattractiveness, the asthma and other varieties of respiratory ailments courtesy of her chain-smoking. That her only child had decided to punish her by never marrying, never having children, was not lost on Izzy. Still, when Izzy had become too ill to breathe on her own, it was Isabelle who rushed her to the hospital; and it was Isabelle who brought her home, tucked her into bed, and made sure the oxygen tent kept her alive.
    But after seven days of intolerable confinement, seven days of embarrassing baths and changes, seven days of no words exchanged save for begrudged greetings and farewells, Izzy had decided that this foggy afternoon was the right time to free herself. And, if she could manage, Clara.
    Beloved Clara.
    She could no longer see her only friend, but knew she was right where she had left her. I'm coming, she thought, hoping the suffocating air out here wouldn't render her a liar. Like in the old days, when slower competitors somehow cruised past her, good old-fashioned anger fuelled her cause, and she writhed her dangling body further over the edge of the bed like a fish out of water. A fish that wants out of her damn bowl! she goaded herself, and grew angrier at her handicap. The fingertips on her right hand touched something cold, hard. It took her a moment to realize she had touched the floor. Her left hand, still pushing against the bunched-up comforter, worked alone to send her over the rest of the way.
    In the space of seconds, Izzy saw the ceiling, then her abdomen, then her legs, the latter two crashing down on her. Within the same seconds, she had felt emptiness beneath her, then the same cold, hard floor forcing itself into her neck and spine. Precious breaths were knocked out of her, and the fog returned, this time most certainly accompanied by death.
    It took her a few moments to realize that death smelled an awful lot like garlic. A few more moments, and Izzy understood she hadn't died . . . and that her daughter wouldn't have heard a thing if she had. She remained alone. On the floor. Alive. For now.
    Alive enough to save Clara.
    Slowly, surely, Izzy wriggled away from the bed until her dumb legs hit the floor. Still, her daughter remained downstairs, oblivious, or willfully so. But in case obliviousness turned to awareness, Izzy needed to move as quickly as her lame body would allow at this late stage in the race. Last one-hundred metres, she implored.
    Since sitting herself up was impossible, she needed to figure out how to get Clara to come down to her level. Could've just grabbed her, and brought her into the tent, she scolded herself, save yourself this stupidity. But she knew it wouldn't have been fair to Clara, to have her lifelong companion go from breathing one brand of plastic air to another. No. She wanted Clara's first breath to be one-hundred-percent, certifiable oxygen . . . even if it was tinged with garlic.
    Izzy flexed the fingers on her left hand, expecting to feel a break, akin to that long-ago ankle, that would prevent her from crossing this finish line. Everything felt in working order. Hand shaped like a spider, the fingers crawled along the floor until they found the nightstand's feet. They climbed past the bottom drawer, then the middle, then she stopped, having reached as high as she could go.
    She looked at the progress her hand had made, and was angered and disappointed to see the tips of her fingers so close to the top. So close to Clara.
    No longer able to uphold itself, her arm fell to the floor for her daughter not to hear. Her shallow, disparate breathing became shallower, more disparate. The retinal fog grew thicker. And she was certain the last time she would see Clara was in the memories she had very limited time to relive:
Sneaking into her late mother's bedroom—this very same bedroom—to sneak a peek at Clara, high on her shelf.
    Receiving Clara on the eve of her mother's passing—in this very same bedroom—on the condition that she pass Clara on to her daughter, should she have one, when her own end was near.
    Asking Isabelle to take Clara off the shelf, and sit her on the nightstand; the plan to release Clara had been confirmed, all the more so by her daughter's routine sneer and remark: “Ugly thing.” Even had Isabelle loved Clara as much as she had, Izzy felt it her duty to finally free her.
    Come on, you useless cigarette-holder. Last fifty metres.
    Her nicotine-stained spider-hand rediscovered the nightstand's feet, and, once more, began its ascent.
    Past the bottom drawer.
    Forty metres.
    Past the middle drawer. 
    Thirty metres.
    Past the bottom of the top drawer.
    Twenty metres.
    Finding the top drawer's knob . . .
    Ten metres.
    . . . where it hung . . .
    Come on.
    . . . unwilling to move.
    COME ON!
    Her hand sprang back, the drawer with it.
    Sliding.
    Sliding.
    Sliding.
    Until the heavy piece abruptly stopped, having reached its limit. The nightstand leaned slightly forward, and Izzy glimpsed her legacy as the dead meat filling of a floor-and-nightstand sandwich. But the nightstand had other plans; before it settled back into place, it made sure to shake free the tall, glossy box.
    The impact was painful, a sharp corner hitting her perfectly in the eye, but nothing compared to the torture her lungs were putting her through. Instead of fog, there was rain. Izzy blinked the burning tears away, bringing not the nightstand into focus, but a face.
    And what a beautiful face it was. Skin made of meringue. A faint smile on pink lips barely formed. Rosy cheeks forever pinched into dimples. Black eyebrows arching over a pair of unblinking bejewelled eyes. Had they seen Izzy? All the Izzy's? From Grandma Izzy to this sorry-excuse-for-an-Izzy?
    They stared at each other for some time, Izzy refusing to blink, like her little friend, lest she slip into death during one of those slivers of blackness. The smell of garlic was fading. She couldn't tell if her daughter was altering the recipe in some way, or if her senses were gradually shutting down.
    Last ten metres, she thought. Perhaps her final thought.
    Izzy used the left hand that made this final reunion possible to locate the pristine cardboard flap above Clara's head. Not with anger, but love, Izzy tore open the lid that had sealed the doll in her prison for three generations, and watched as Clara took in her first-ever breath of fresh air.

Artisan baker by trade, Alfredo Salvatore Arcilesi has been published in over 60 literary journals worldwide.  Winner of the Scribes Valley Short Story Writing Contest, he was also a finalist in the Blood Orange Review Literary Contest, and was awarded the Popular Vote in the Best of Rejected Manuscripts Competition.  In addition to several short pieces, he is currently working on his debut novel.

On a cold winter night
I lay in the comfort of soft blankets and cushy pillows
The non-stop titter-tatter against all tangibles
mercilessly broke my hard-earned slumber
Sliding and slithering over and over 
Crystalline droplets raced on the glassy tracks
without much caution or trepidation.
The uncoiled skeins of climatic emotions
were desperate to bring glee into doldrums.
I woke up, sat up and stayed up
leaning towards the window pane, listening to their tantrums
All night in silence, eyes closed, ears open
It was a performance that clamoured for attention
from lonely souls and midnight owls.
I wish it came with a volume control
The loud clatter and yellow lights, were acting like partners in crime
brutally stirring up memories of good times
Days that could not be reclaimed
Nights and people that were taken for granted
The happy chemicals I managed to create
were rashly getting washed down the creeks.
I sat there shiftless watching it happen
as the raging tears trickled down.
No amount of righteous downpour
Would ever cleanse my soul or grant an absolution
So I beg for some silence, a little peace
 Whispering through the damp chamber,
“Shush please, shush please”.

Jack is a poet and graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. His book Still Lifes is the winner of the 2020 Deena Davidson Friedman prize. His work has recently taken visual art as its subject--painting and photography in particular. He lives in St. Louis and spends most of his time at the museum.

I am well worn, thumbed through, creased at the edges
Always stuck on the same page, always mid-sentence
I can neither avert my eyes, turn thoughts, nor paper
For it is my life’ s work, knowing something of what’s gone before
But no clarity as to what comes next
I live in the now of uncertainty
No future, beyond skittish dreams
My imprint is not a doer, but a fence sitter
Who cannot jump till all the jumbled pieces are boxed
But life is liquid, ebbing and flowing
Formless, seamless, perhaps meaningless
Favouring the page turners who run blindly to the next staging post
Whilst visionaries awaiting the grand vision
Are left wanting - wanting to know
Does God give us patterns?
Glimpses of the eternal to send us on our merry way
Or are we just sleepwalking into nothingness?
Weighty questions, light on answers I fear
For the doomed among us, the poor dogeared

Mark is a professional composer and lyricist, which helps bring rhythm and musicality to his poetry. Lyric writing may pave the way for penning poetry, but Mark is well aware of the key difference; song lyrics are written to be sung. whereas poetry is written to be read. From the UK, Mark lives just outside Brighton and often takes inspiration from this colourful, seaside city. Poetry is a relatively new venture for Mark and with that comes the usual insecurity about whether or not his poems are any good, but publication does wonders for self-doubt. 

Velda Wang is a current junior from metro Atlanta. In her own words, she describes her creative process as follows: "I mostly paint landscapes and through my paintings, I hope to evoke either a sense of appreciation for our beautiful home or a sense of urgency how fast it is disappearing because of our destruction. For example, in Barren, I used mostly darker colors like dark green and dark brown to convey the desolate mood, and the brown, murky water symbolizes the waste and filth of our future land, and there are a few trees in the background to show what will happen if we do not take action to protect our ecology."